


Marked Upon My Skin

by ValentineDevil



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Army Doctor John, Cases from the Show, Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, First Time, I mean- who could resist those cheekbones? John certainly can't, John in Denial About His Sexuality, John's just in denile about his very gay feelings, M/M, Only for a couple chapters, Sexual Content, mention of drug use, soul mates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-05-15 23:47:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5805064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValentineDevil/pseuds/ValentineDevil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if, when we come of age, our soul mate's name is marked upon our skin by the forces of nature? But merely the 'first name', of course, life isnt that easy:</p><p>"You have GOT to be kidding me. John. " Sherlock screamed at the black scribble of a mark along his wrist. "There are THOUSANDS of people with that name!"</p><p>"Yeah but only one of those is yours" Mycroft so solemnly spoke, scratching at the 'Greg' burnt absent mindedly along his knuckles.</p><p>---</p><p>"Sherlock? What kind of a fucking name is that?" John wretched. "I'm not even gay"...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Marked Young, Marked Forever

**Author's Note:**

> Found an idea for this while I was scrolling through Instagram and I just HAD to write it- if you see any mistakes etc, let me know but do understand that some 'facts' have been changed for the purpose of the story, nevertheless, tell me your thoughts on this piece of 'Johnlock'.

John pulled at the skin of his inner forearm, his hand above his head and elbow crooked as he depicted the darkening letters that formed. His skin tingled without pain, but the confused expression across his face was a different matter.

"Sherlock? What kind of a fucking name is that?" John wretched. "I'm not even gay."

Harry smirked from behind him, hip against the wall as she brushed her hair with a thin plastic comb. An amused smile plastered on her lips as she watched her brother attempt to rub away his mark. 

"Maybe not yet you're not." she replied, looking down at her own mark across her thigh under the hem of her shorts: a woman's name, of course. Not that it had ever bothered her that her soul mate would be female, but apparently John was a little surprised at the same sex name permanently on his flesh. 

_Surely Sherlock was a girl's name? It has to be,_ the nineteen year old thought to himself.

"I'm. Not. Gay!" John protested, glaring at his sister, never really letting go of his mark. Harry just shrugged and stumbled out of the bathroom, muttering a 'Happy Mark Day- now you're a real man- a  _gay_ one' and chuckling like a hyena until her door closed behind her. "I'm not..." John sighed, looking at his mark once more, tracing each letter with the tip of his index finger. "I'll meet you one day, I suppose... _Sherlock_ ".

 

***

"You have GOT to be kidding me. John. " Sherlock screamed at the black scribble of a mark along his wrist. "There are THOUSANDS of people with that name!"

"Yeah but only one of those is yours." Mycroft so solemnly spoke, scratching at the 'Greg' burnt absent mindlessly along his knuckles.

"This is ridiculous..." Sherlock growled, staring daggers at his mark. The name of his soul mate.

"I thought you weren't even bothered about the whole  _soul mate_ thing dear brother?" Mycroft teased, knowing all too well that his brother would not be able to resist the urge to seek out one's soul mate when their name appears to us. It usually occurs around the age of 16-19, known as 'Mark Day' when one's soul mate's name forms in the blackest of delicate writing, as if tattooed onto the skin, but it is not.

Sherlock felt sick with the idea that he was actually someone's soul mate. As if he belonged to them. In that moment he wanted to carve the text out of his skin and chuck it at his brother's face. But then again he doubted it would make the sixteen year old feel any better. Sherlock let out an annoyed groan and fingered the mark, dark strands of hair fluttering into his eyes.

"It will be good."

Sherlock glanced up at his brother's declaration with a questioning grunt.

"When you meet your soul mate, it will be good." Mycroft explained, gaze low.

"You don't know that, you haven't even met your own soul mate!" Sherlock exclaimed, eyes squinting against the harsh kitchen light.

"No..."

Thats when Sherlock realised that his brother had  _hope:_ beautiful and desperate hope. Perhaps the future detective could have hope too-how hard could it really be?

***

 Throughout the rest of John's medical studies, he abandoned the idea of having a soul mate, putting all his attention into his work so he could join the army. But, he was barely a week into the blistering heat and rotting bodies and bloody wounds of Afghanistan, that he began to wish he had found his better half already. For now he felt so dearly alone and lost against the sea of bodies pooling around him. However, not for one moment did John not enjoy the adrenaline pounding around his vessel as he  _saved_ people. And how their soul mates would thank him. He felt as if he was doing good, and still, he did not feel complete.

Meanwhile, Sherlock prepared for the life of a consulting detective, perfecting his science of deduction. Sure, maybe he indulged in a few...habits- but all for science (and solving crimes, of course)! Though for all the bragging of the work he does, he would never admit to seeking out his soul mate, to which he spent many nights as an adolescent trying to find. But at the chance of solving further crimes, more gruesome, more thought-provoking, he eventually spent less and less time scrolling through the list of Johns in the world he stole off Mycroft. Until he stopped searching at all, before he even reached the letter W.

For all it was worth they both should have forgotten about having a soul mate: they were not destined to meet quite yet, pending on John getting shot and sent to London, finally. Albeit being 10 years after either of them got their marks (placing John as 29 and Sherlock 26 years of age), neither truly lost that one important thing.

Hope. 

 


	2. Is this your name Marked Upon My Skin?

Gun shots could still be heard ringing in John's ears. The gun shot that could have killed him. It didn't. Somehow John always knew the battle field wasn't where his last resting place would be. The gravel was thick and smooth beneath his limping frame, last night's terror hovering over him like vultures around a carcass already being fed on by a sickly lion. He wasn't sure whether he was the carcass, or the lion, not that it mattered. 

John clutched onto his metal walking stick in his right hand, face clenched, uneasy. John was calm and alert as he listened amongst the crowd of onlookers who stared when they thought he wasn't watching. Feeling their gazes bore into his back:  _what happened to him?_ he could almost hear them ask. He hated all the questions, the uncertainty others gave him. Almost wishing the whole world just knew he went down fighting, would bring him some peace. Stop the curiosity of others so he could just get on with it and heal on his own. 

As John shuffled further into the park, the stares were replaced with small glances by passing morning joggers. He could deal with that. When the ache in John's knuckles became more noticeable, John decided on the inevitable and took a beat of a rest on the nearest bench. It was slightly damp from the morning mist and mossy from years of unkempt and rotting wood.

"John? John Watson!" a cheery, disbelieving voice bellowed from beside him.

"Uh- hello?" John stumbled, looking up at the larger man in confusion before him.

"Its me. Mike." the man smiled, but when the expression on John's face made no movement of recognition, he detailed his response, "Stamford... We studied at Barts together"

"Of course! Mike, yeah. Sorry." John profusely apologised, coming to a jagged stance .

"No _worries._ Surprised to see you here, I thought you were off getting shot somewhere?" Mike joked, nudging John's arm with his elbow. "What happened?"

"I got shot." John replied bluntly, brushing off the joke.

"Oh..." A small and completely awkward blush appeared on Mike's round cheeks. "I am sorry to hear that, John" his old friend muttered, patting John's shoulder, whom of which couldn't help but wince at the contact. John hated it when people touched the area of his scarred over wound, whether they knew it was there or not. It brought him a crestfallen discomfort, a reminder of one's weakness on the battle field in the face of the enemy. That perhaps, John Watson, was not good  _enough._

"Its fine. I'm actually looking for a place to rent at the moment, though its hard to find a decent place on Army Pension." John complained halfheartedly in an attempt to lighten the mood. 

Mike thought about asking John why he wasn't spending time with his soul mate, or if they had even found each other yet- but it was rude to ask about another's soul mate when not brought up by the person(s) in question. So instead:

"Well, thats interesting that you bring that up. I know a certain fellow who's looking for a flat mate, strange man, but I think the rents cheap and the land lady is lovely...but-"

"As long as its cheap I can put up with pretty much anything." John laughed, though Mike's mouth was anything but smiling. John frowned at this- the man couldn't be that bad, could he? 

"I'll tell you what, let me talk to him, ask him any queries you have, then, If you're interested, I'll take you down to meet him, eh?" Mike reasoned, getting out his phone to jot down basic informational questions about the flat he would ask Sherlock later.

"Thank you, that would be great. Want to grab a bite to catch up?" John offered. He knew getting someone to live with him would be a long shot, with all his flaws, but he supposed it was worth a chance.

"I'm glad you asked. I'm starving!" Mike laughed, causing an actual tip of a smile from John. If only John knew how close he was to finding his soul mate, maybe that smile would be a little bigger.

***

Sherlock had been analysing types of  **Streptococcus** bacteria when the familiar  _ting_ of his phone bounced off the walls of the kitchen. Intrigued by the offer of a new client, Sherlock tapped the phone and was rather disappointed to merely see Stamford's name there. Nonetheless, Sherlock opened the message to a rather curious text.

_Found a man interested in the flat- wants to know rent cost. I think you'll like him, old friend of mine -Mike_

With a swift roll of his eyes Sherlock text back the cost and left it at that, knowing this stranger wouldn't want to live with a man, well, like Sherlock. The consulting detective hadn't even managed to have a sip of the tea that had appeared beside him before Mike had replied.

_Hes up with paying the cost. Shall I bring him down to the lab to meet? -Mike_

Sherlock thought upon the text and decided he could always just brush up on his deduction skills if the whole thing fell through. He had nothing to lose and everything to gain. 

***

"No, I'm teaching now actually." 

"Yeah?" John urged, focusing on what his old friend was saying rather than the ache in his left hand.

"Bright young things, like we used to be." Mike reminisced. "God, I hate them." John laughed at this, almost spilling his drink over the table. The café was light with customers and heavy with the sugar (in the metaphorical sense), just what John liked. It didn't remind him of bitter thoughts and dark dreams. He almost felt at peace eating his sandwich while Mike text his mysterious and apparently strange friend. "Ah, hes going to meet us at the lab. How 'bout we finish here and I'll introduce you?"

"Great." John smiled, tucking into his last bite of food and brushing away the crumbs, feeling more than ready to possibly make a new friend.

 

Despite the cleanliness of the labs, John couldn't help but notice the dark edge they had to them as he and Mike pondered down the hall. It was more than likely that Mike was more nervous about introducing John, than John was himself at meeting this man. John noted the way the corners of Mike's jaw quivered: as if he was afraid he was doing something very bad, but knew in his heart it was good. Little did John know that Mike was very much aware that the ex-army doctor could be soul mates with the consulting detective. Mike had caught a glimpse once at Sherlock's mark -the oh so awkward place it was to cover up- and he had the fleeting of a feeling that the John next to him, could only ever be the John for dear Sherlock. 

"This is the lab" Mike recalled to John, daringly pushing open the wooden door to allow himself and the hobbling doctor through. John took a moment to take in the lab, with an assortment of test tubes, vials and brightly colour liquids to go alongside the very expensive looking microscopes.

John almost didn't notice the lanky, dark haired man sat at the far counter, gazing expectantly through one of the white microscopes, but then again, how could he miss him at all? Skin creamy and smooth, and cheek bones you could carve glass with. And that mop of dark curls, so very distinctive to the man who John assumed was a few years younger than himself. The door closed behind them and the man gave a careful look of acknowledgement in their direction. His eyes were so clearly blue, but in this slightly yellow light they seemed to glow an eternal, moss green.

If John didn't have his cane he would have fallen over for sure. But the stranger tore his gaze away and continued with his work, not realising that he had already half deduced the soldier. No. Army doctor. 

"Mike, can I borrow your phone." It wasn't really a question, the detective was demanding.

"No." was the simple, sly reply. Sherlock frowned at this and glanced up at Mike opposite him, a smile playing about his cheeks. _Whats he up to?_ Sherlock asked himself.

"Here, you can borrow mine." came a gruff, silvery voice. Sherlock froze for a moment, taking in the heavy demeanour and well built body of whom could only be assumed as Mike's 'old friend'.

"Oh, thank you." Sherlock countered, coming to take the scratched phone from tanned fingers. Sherlock was quick to text what he needed to and he had more than enough knowledge obtained from observing this man. He would do fine as his flatmate. But there was one thing. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John froze, staring at the short smile upon Mike's face, before cocking his head at the stranger. 

"I'm sorry?" John questioned, surely he hadn't heard right.

"Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock repeated. John's jaw had gone slack as he exchanged glances with Mike, disbelieving the words coming out of the pale man's pink lips. The man carefully gave John his phone back, the door creaking open behind them.

"Afghanistan." John finally answered, shifting on his feet and sneaking an awkward look at the ground. As if answers would just spew up from the floor. "Sorry, how did you-"

"Ah Molly. Coffee, thank you." 

"-know." John finished, watching a young woman in a white lab coat handing the tall man a mug of coffee. They conversed about...lipstick... though John was far from listening to the conversation, too caught up in how the man _knew_ he had recently come from Afghanistan (or Iraq).

"How do you feel about the violin?" the man interrupted his thoughts, the woman quietly leaving. John watched until she left and glanced once more at Mike -with a lop sided grin on his face John didn't agree with- turning to the man.

"I'm sorry, what?" John smacked his lips, his head still tilted to the side like a dog listening intently.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for...days on end." the man dragged the sentence on in such a deep voice it made his stomach tighten. He had said it as if he was recalling a rather boring list, until he finally perked up at his next question "Would that bother you? Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other." the man stared at John in a questioning manner, expecting an answer, with a flash of a more than forced smile.

"How  _did_ you know about Afghanistan?" It was John's turn to ask questions. He felt in defence, an uncertainty about the man before him.

"Found a nice little place in central London, with the both of us we 'aught to be able to afford it" the man explained, slipping on a long black coat and tying a blue scarf around his neck. "We can meet there at 7 o'clock. Sorry, got to dash-" the man continued on about a riding crop. John still wasn't listening as the man brushed past him.

"Is that it?" John gasped, annoyed to say the least. Sherlock paused at this and came to face the army doctor once more.

"Is that what?" Sherlock asked, his hands easily curling into his coat pockets.

"Look, we don't know a thing about each other, I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name." John answered calmly, albeit his nostrils flared slightly. Sherlock took a small intake of breath before he began.

"I know you're an army doctor back from Afghanistan, you've got a brother who worries about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him. Possibly because he's an alcoholic but more likely that he walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid...Thats enough to be going on with don't you think?" The man darted his gaze and backed up to the door, an apologetic smile on his mouth.

John could feel his heart race against his chest, and yet he wasn't prepared for what came next.

"The names Sherlock Holmes. The address is 221b Baker Street." the man winked. The door open and staying put with his hand on the knob, waiting for the doctor to reply before he left completely. He wasn't going to wait, but the awful, scared look the cripple gave Sherlock stopped him dead in his tracks. 

It was a look of utter betrayal and lost, but also a look of someone that had just gained  _too much._ The expression intrigued Sherlock and Mike seemed none the wiser. 

_Oh God_ , John yelled to himself.  _Its him! Sherlock!_ And John could see it from here, the scrawled, black ink that so clearly read ' _ **John**_ '.  _It has to be him!_

While John was screaming internally, deciding whether to be happy or terrified at finding his soul mate, Sherlock was trying ever so hard to decipher the doctor's thoughts, his stance, the clenching of his jaw and stiffness of his hand.

"John, you OK there mate?" came Mike's reassuring voice, coming towards John but pausing half way when he realised he had probably said the wrong thing. 

Sherlock's eyes were wide like a deer caught in the head lights of screeching truck, horns blazing for him to move out of the way. What was this he was feeling? Excitement? No, he felt that all the time on cases. But his heart was pounding as his dropped his hold on the door, the wood slowly creaking back into place. No. What he was feeling, was  _relief._

_I've found you._ Sherlock thought. He had never been so frightened.  _You've found me._

The air was tense and suffocating. Utterly silent except for the thumping hearts and gentle _whoozing_ of a computer. John, surprisingly, was the one who broke it.

"You're not a girl."

"What?"

 


	3. When I Trace My Marked Skin, I Only See You

_"You're not a girl"_ , Did John say that aloud?  _Fuck._ John cursed to himself, those were not the words to describe how he was feeling. How was he feeling? Hell, John didn't know himself. There was his soul mate, right in front of him. All lanky bones and cut-throat edges, and those eyes. Two pools of madness John was scrambling to get out of. No chance. He was drowning. He would be for a very long time.

Sherlock blinked. Once. Twice. John thought he was a girl? No, John had hoped he was a girl, a woman. Sherlock felt a hideous blush creep across his face, he wanted nothing more than to run.

His feet didn't move.

Mike stood awkwardly to the side, hands half up in case John's PTSD came out blindly, viciously. This wasn't suppose to happen, not like this. Mike was mortified and Sherlock was cracking. When Mike finally stepped forward Sherlock glanced quickly in his direction before a deep, throaty laugh was emitted from John. Sherlock raised his brows at the doctor, before he could feel the own ends of his mouth lifting in an amused smile. Then he was laughing too. Mike, eyes wide, dropped his arms in relief and chuckled along with the pair, the horrid atmosphere shrinking away, dissipating out the vents.

"Sorry" John finally choked, calming down his chuckling, wiping away a stray tear that had formed. Looking at Sherlock now, John knew he never wanted his soul mate to have been anyone but  _him._ "Sorry, I-"John let out a huff of laughter, what exactly was he going to say?

Sherlock watched him, a smirk about his lips. Everything was OK: John was fine with the fact that Sherlock had a penis instead of female reproductive organs. And for Sherlock, a soul mate with as many flaws as himself was most definitely a perk. An unspoken loyalty of knowledge and safety seemed to pass between them, unsteady, but still, it was there.

"Seven o'clock then, 221b Baker Street" John recalled, smiling shyly at his soul mate. Sherlock would have protested, asking John to come to the flat with him now. But they both had things to do and new knowledge to get their heads around. Sherlock gave a curt nod, and slowly, very slowly left his soul mate behind.

John let out a deep sigh, calming the nerves that still sizzled between the red blood cells in his veins. Satisfied -but still processing the event that had just occurred- John turned to Mike, eyebrow cocked.

"Did you know? About, _Sherlock_?" John asked with not a flutter of annoyance or anger.

"Might have" Mike replied, shrugging in such a way that might have seemed childish or like a giggling school girl. John let out a light chuckle and gripped his cane, pushing on out the door, Mike right beside him.

 

John shifted his weight out of the cabbie, saying his farewells to Mike before the taxi drove off down the busy lane. The room he was currently renting was a piece of shit to call it politely, but it was cheap and quite honestly, John didn't plan on staying for much longer. He had somewhere else to be now; someone he needed to be with- to feel that connection his heart had secretly been yearning for. He felt as if the world had betrayed him and yet given him the greatest gift of all, and he had no clue as to what truly came next. What steps did he need to take to get from A to Z?

With all his training, as a soldier as well as a doctor, John was at a lost. Perplexed and completely captivated by his fate-given lover. Well, in time they would be lovers. 

John hoped so. And in 221b Baker Street, Sherlock hoped the same thing.

 ***

Golden light had barely started to filter through the window slats when John startled awake, his soul mate's name on the tip of his tongue. Beads of sweat trickling down his forehead and bare chest, entangling with the golden hairs feathered between pectoral muscles and downwards. John leaned forwards on the bed and rest his face on the limp palms of his hands, touching the damp ends of his fringe with the tips of his fingers. 

"God, I'm a wreck" John groaned, rubbing his face to only halt all movement after a moment. Gradually, John crooked his elbow higher to out-stare his mark while his other arm flopped into his lap. Gazing at the beautifully coordinated letters that formed 'Sherlock', John couldn't help but picture the man that went with the name. All long limbs and sharp edges, creamy skin and entrancing eyes. He almost wished he had stared more carefully so he could remember every detail exactly, but he was very aware of the amount of time he did have to memorise each square inch of Sherlock's lean body. For now leaving his imagination to picture what lay beneath Sherlock's seemingly tight clothes.

John shook his head- only yesterday he was convinced his soul mate was a girl, and now John was more than prepared for his soul mate to be a man. Yet terrified he still was, he did not fear his future.

Pushing out of bed, John had almost made it to the shower when the was a quick buzz of someone calling his flat- causing him to shudder to a stop. 

_Bzzzt._

There it was again. Confused out of his mind, John stumbled towards his door where the speaker lay against the wall. John frowned as he pressed the cold button to speak.

"Hello?" John called to the person who had mysteriously stopped buzzing his room. "Stupid kids" John muttered to himself, limping away before he heard a deep voice echo through the speaker.

"Hello, John" 

Startled and his breath caught in his throat, he flung himself at the speaker, eagerly pressing the button to reply.

"Sherlock!" he exclaimed, for the handsome voice couldn't belong to anyone but his soul mate. "What are you doing here?" John gasped, delighted and yet baffled, and so amused.

"Mike said I should help you bring your belongings over" Sherlock stated, shifting on his toes as he spoke into the receiver.

"My belongings..." John muttered to himself, flummoxed before he realised that Sherlock had meant help him move his stuff into Sherlock's (soon to be theirs) flat.

When John didn't even so much as reply, let alone buzz him in, Sherlock began to think coming here was a bad idea. He should have gone with his gut, stayed at home and waited to see if John would actually come to him. With no expression or body language to go off, Sherlock turned on his heel to head home when all of a sudden, the door leading to a mysterious set of stairs clicked unlocked. 

John was letting him in.

Sherlock smiled, and ascended the stairs. 

Meanwhile, John was shivering with anticipation. Sherlock was on his way up and he was in no way prepared. Still bare chested with only boxers on, John scrambled to clean his sweat coated skin with a wet flannel, shovelling on a white with blue checkered shirt along with some dark coloured jeans. John was barely hopping into his socks when there was a heavy knock on the door. 

" _Shit"_ John cursed to himself, checking his reflection in the mirror momentarily before deciding he could have looked worse. John attempted to flatten his spiked hair while he hobbled towards the door. No luck.  

John slid the slide latch on the door and yanked it open wide, revealing a very dark and attractive man: Sherlock.

"Hey..." John breathed, licking his lips in habit, causing a quick glance at them from Sherlock. 

"Hello" the detective answered, husky and all too endearing. John stepped to the side to allow his soul mate past. Sherlock entered the small room with an attached kitchen and bathroom carefully, eyeing up two medium sized boxes packed together on the floor. There wasn't much else in the flat, the things in the boxes were everything John owned. Sherlock wasn't sure how to feel about that, nor the messy bed sheets of a restless night- much like Sherlock's own. Except in the detective's case he didn't even attempt sleep, just sat in his mind palace, piecing things together. 

John shoved the door closed behind them and limped after the consulting detective, a blush upon his cheeks as he realised Sherlock now knew what the place he had been living in looked like. Damp ceilings and stained carpets, some mouldy food in the fridge he was suppose to throw out yesterday. Sherlock took notice of every detail and felt such shame, that his soul mate had been living in such a dump instead of within his arms in a more suitable environment. 

"So, do you want a drink?" John coughed, then registered that as a stupid question seen as he had nothing but tap water to actually consume. Thankfully, Sherlock gave a curt  _"no thank you, John"_ and left it at that. "I've just got a few more items to pack, then um, we can go?" John hesitated, a questioning purse on his lips. Sherlock nodded and John took that as a cue to scramble his toiletries, brushing his teeth quickly while he was at it.

Rushing to have everything sorted, John spat out the froth from his toothpaste into the sink and placed his toothbrush in a plastic bag along with other supplies. John almost jumped out of his skin when he caught sight of the lanky, dark haired man leaning against the door frame.

"I scare you" Sherlock deduced.

"No" John answered defiantly, "not at all"

"Oh? Your quickened breath rate says otherwise", Sherlock countered, "You won't look me in the eye". 

"Its not because I'm scared of you" John admitted, the doctor tying the bag, not once letting his gaze meet the consulting detective's. If he had, Sherlock would have seen his dilated pupils, and known that John was not frightened, but aroused. John brushed past Sherlock's arm, hobbling to the boxes to put the bag in and close it all off, soul mate following leisurely behind him. "Why  _are_ you here?" John asked, not annoyed or disgusted, but generally curious.

"I told you. Mike said I should help you move your belongings" Sherlock answered, not missing a beat, "I said you would be fine, but he rather insisted" the detective stated matter of factly, pretending to inspecting the room further.

"I like having you here". John's declaration surprised himself, "I mean, helping me move the boxes...Less trips to the cabbie and all that" John quickly covered up, scrunching his face at the awkwardness of it all. Sherlock made a humming sound but John wasn't quite sure what it meant.

When the packing was complete, John discretely made the bed and sat on the end of its hard mattress to tie his suede shoes. Sherlock observed his soul mate intently, catching a dark glimpse of his own name on John's forearm. His name, on someone else's body, it caused an array of emotion, but the tingling sensation in his gut was the hardest to ignore.

John quickly slipped on his jacket, and his mark was gone from wondering eyes. Doing a once over the place, John came to where Sherlock stood by the boxes. Eager to leave at soon as possible, John hauled one of the boxes into his arms and cocked an eyebrow at Sherlock. The consulting detective remained unmoving for a too long seemingly second, causing a bolt of anxiety from the doctor. That was, until Sherlock bent down to carry the slightly lighter weight box -John made sure of that- and followed his soul mate out the door and down the stairs. They descended in silence, that was until John kept the main door open for Sherlock with his shoulder, to which the detective murmured a shy thank you.

The consulting detective had asked the taxi he came in to wait, and the driver had, helping the two men pack the boxes into the back of the cab. Now in the vehicle, all was quiet again. John rubbed his palms along his thighs, another habit that was certainty distracting to the detective. Sherlock was caught out of his trace at the sound of John's voice.

"So, what is it that you do exactly?

"The police consult me when they get foolishly stuck" 

"The police don't consult amateurs" John chuckled, disbelieving. Sherlock gave an all too knowing, smug, smile.

"Yesterday I asked you Afghanistan or Iraq" Sherlock reminded him, as if that would give him all the answers.

"How did you know about Afghanistan?"

"Hmm?"

"How did you know all that?" John asked again, inquisitive. Sherlock gave him a sheepish look before he finally replied, as arrogantly as ever.

"I didn't know, I saw" Sherlock gave a brief pause before he continued, "the way you hold yourself says military, you knew your way around the lab, knew which substances to avoid without consciously knowing of it,old friend of Mike's, you studied there : army doctor, obvious. Tanned skin, but no tan above the wrists, you've been abroad but not sunbathing. 

"Your limp is really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, as if you've forgotten about it, so its at least partly psychosomatic, the injury leading to it must have been traumatic. You were in action then.

Wounded in action. Suntan. Afghanistan or Iraq" Sherlock concluded, not even slightly out of breath.

"You said I had a therapist" John recalled.

"A psychosomatic limb, of course you have a therapist. Then there's your brother"

"Hmm?" It was John's turn to make undecipherable grunts.

"Your phone, its expensive, email able, MP3. If you were looking for a flat share you wouldn't waste money on this- its a gift then. Scratches, not one, many over time. Its been the same pocket as keys and coins. Someone like you wouldn't treat it like this, its had a previous owner. The next bits easy, you know it already."

"The engraving" John stated simply, turning to watch.

"Watson. Clearly a family member's old phone. Not your father's, no, a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live, unlikely you've got an extended family. Certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is.

"Clara, who's Clara. Three kisses is a romantic gesture, an attachment, expensive: his wife, not girlfriend. Its not even new, barely 6 months old. 6 months old and hes just giving it away? No, if she left him, it would be sentiment. No, he wanted rid of it so he left her. Gave it to you, suggests he wants to stay in touch.

"You're looking for cheap accommodation, and you're not going to your brother for help. Ah, says you've got problems with him. Maybe liked his wife, maybe you don't like his drinking"

"How...can...you  _possibly_ know about the drinking?" John fretted, but all the while amazed, albeit hiding it well.

"Shot in the dark. God one though" Sherlock praised himself, "power connection, telling from the scratch marks around the edge of it. Been plugging it into charge but hands unsteady, never see the markings on a sober man's phone. Never see a drunk's without them. See, you were right"

"I know I was" John smirked, but faltered, "About what?"

"That police don't consult amateurs" Sherlock groaned, though a fitting smile on his face.

"Brilliant" John sighed, astonished.

"What?" the statement caught Sherlock off guard, he didn't quite register what was happening.

"Brilliant" John didn't falter in his praise of his soul mate.

"Thats not what people usually say" Sherlock confessed.

"What do they usually say?"

"Piss off" Sherlock smirked, John chuckling by his side.

"You were wrong about one thing though" John pronounced. Sherlock gave him the most horrified look. "I don't have a brother"

"...What?"

"Its short for Harriet" 

A flash of a second past and then they were both laughing, high pitched and deep, breathy laughs, all the way to 221b Baker Street. Each look at one another provoking more bounty-fills of laughter. It was good, natural, and most of all, settling. Their barriers down allowed the pair to discover more about their better and yet completely flawed other half.

Neither would have changed it for the world. And if John had forgotten his cane, Sherlock didn't mention it.

 


	4. My Mark Is Dark, But That Doesn't Mean You Are

"Here we are" the driver called back to them, in case through all their fits of laughter they hadn't noticed, "need help with the boxes?"

"Thats quite fine thank you" John replied, quickly paying the driver and then went to grab the box he had carried before. Only to realise that Sherlock was going for it, "I'll carry that!" John quickly interjected, grabbing the heavier box in such a hurry he almost dropped it. Sherlock gave him a blank stare before finally picking up the other box. 

John took a moment to survey his surroundings, out of instinct more than anything, until he came across a black door with gold reflecting numbers and letter. 221B Baker Street, a sight it was indeed, as if a glance upon its scratched edges revealed the ex-army doctor's future. He was sure it did. 

"Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive" John acknowledged, feeling a little bit out of his depth.

"No, Mrs Hudson the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. She owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out" Sherlock explained.

"So y-you stopped her husband being executed?"

"Oh, no. I ensured it"

A small, humble looking lady shuffled out from behind the door, a smile etched onto her face.

"Oh Sherlock! There you are dear" she spoke, voice soft and feeble, but very wise to only the most trained of hearing.

"Mrs Hudson" Sherlock acknowledged the woman, brushing past John towards the entrance. The doctor quickly followed suit, saying a friendly hello to the lady who stalked them the whole way up the stairs, nattering about how it was nice to have someone move in with solemn Sherlock Holmes. The hallway was a little dark, made of wood with little to no natural lighting. John didn't mind.

Sherlock bumped the door open at the top of the incline, pausing slightly before moving so the door didn't shut in John's face. It was a small gesture, one that John didn't notice, but Mrs Hudson sure did. The older woman had a wicked smile on her face, and quite frankly, it unsettled John, not being quite used to the more innocent of minded smiles. In Afghanistan, when they were spared a moment without death, the smiles they shared were ruined by ghostly eyes, baited breath and most of all uncertainty.

When John found his footing comfortably in the flat, he jolted the box down in utter surprise of the  _clutter._ But not one single thing was rubbish, each bit as important as the next item. John was at a lost, as if he was stepping on toes. Sherlock had definitely moved in. Whether the consulting detective was settled was an entirely different matter. John eyed up all the rooms, observing the kitchen and the rather large lounge before laying his gaze on a hallway with doors and a rather old looking staircase. 

"Theres a room upstairs if you'll be needing it" Mrs Hudson explained to John, flickering between the two of them.

"Of course we'll be needing it" John answered matter of factly, if a little bit with a bitter tang. The doctor felt on high defence, looking out for any dangers that might pose as a threat to his pride. Naturally, John knew at some point they wouldn't be needing the spare room, but he was not ready for that. Not yet.

"Well, you know we have all sorts around here..." the older woman muttered, talking about the neighbours. A conversation, or rather speech, that neither John nor Sherlock were listening to. "I'll let you get settled then, John"

"Lovely to meet you" John grimaced, hiding his relief as some sort of quietness finally consumed his surroundings.

A fresh start.

A new beginning.

His first and new love.

***

John had been on his way to the shops to get milk and other supplies they were in dire need of, when the sleek black vehicle glided alongside him. The doctor knew he shouldn't have got in, especially when the woman beckoning him in was shady and glued to her phone screen. But, there was a certain curiosity there John couldn't shrug off. He got in.

All attempts at conversation with the brown haired woman were met with dead ends- no answers. When they finally arrive at the most empty looking ware house John had ever seen (not that he went around ware houses, much) the doctor's anxiety was so high he was glad his soul mate wasn't there to see it. John took the car stopping as a sign to get out, and that he did, noticing a tall man in the centre of the enormous room.

"Take a seat" the man commanded, though to his disappointment, John refused.

"Who are you?" John asked, tone accusing.

"An enemy of Sherlock Holmes" the man retorted, voice thick with the typical 'high end posh school boy' accent. 

"Enemy?", John raised his eyebrows. He hadn't considered that he soul mate had enemies.

"His arch enemy if you like" when John said no more, the man continued, coming closer to the once soldier, "I worry about him...constantly"

"Thats nice of you"

"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned." The man looked down, "We have what you would call, a difficult relationship" the stranger explained, voice growing lighter, it wasn't until the end of his sentence that the man frowned, watching John intently rather than the floor.

"No" was all John said, he knew where this was going, it didn't take Sherlock Holmes to work that out.

"Well, I haven't even mentioned a figure yet" the man chuckled, swinging a very dry umbrella in his grip.

"Don't bother" John snapped. The peculiar man laughed at this, creases forming on his forehead.

"You're very loyal, very quickly"

"No I'm not, I'm just not interested" John licked his lips in annoyance. The man's face changed at this, becoming darker and more potent.

"Trust issues" the man announced, pulling out a sweet little brown notebook, flicking through its contents, "It says here". John stared at the book in shock for a moment, before his face became distorted in disgust, in worry.

"Whats that?" John asked roughly.

"Could it be that you have decided to trust Sherlock Holmes or all people?" the tall, elegant man assumed.

"Who said I trust him?" John glared up at the man, licking his lips once more.

"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily"

"We done?" John bitterly asked, eager to get out of the cobweb thick building.

"You tell me"

John cocked his head to the side, glanced down, then turned away.

"I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from Sherlock Holmes. But I can see from your left hand thats not going to happen"

John paused, eyes closing as he took the deepest breath he could muster. John shook his head dismissively before twisting around to face the man.

"My what?"

"Show it to me"

After a reluctant few seconds, John lift his left hand, evoking the man to come swiftly forwards to inspect, but at this John pulled away with a "don't". The man gave a curt sideways nod and a devilish smile. John held his hand to the man again who proceeded to encase it between his two hands, gold ring rubbing against John's knuckles.

"Remarkable" the man concluded, dropping John's hand. The man began a predatory walk in front of John, as if trying to frighten the doctor.

"What is?"

"People lunge around this city and all they see are streets, shops and cars and...when you walk with Sherlock Holmes you see a battlefield. But you've seen it already,haven't you" it wasn't a question.

"Whats wrong with my hand?"

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand" the man said, to which John nodded slightly."Your therapist thinks its post traumatic stress disorder, she thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service"

"Who the hell are you?" John growled, his head falling down defiantly at his outburst. "How do you know that?" John asked more calmly, not having the confidence to meet the man's gaze.

"Fire her- she's got it the wrong way round. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady...You're not haunted by the war Dr. Watson. You miss it" it was the strange man's turn to be accusing. He bent down to John slightly, whispering a ghostly: "welcome back" before walking away completely. "Time to choose a side Dr. Watson" the man charmed, swinging his umbrella profusely by his side as his figure got further and further away.

"I choose my soul mate, thank you. But thanks for the consideration" John blurted, mortified, and yet polite all the same. John watched the figure halt at this, the man ever so delicately turning on his heel towards John.

"So you're  _the_ John, hmm?" the man asked, tone changing entirely to something more curious and affectionate. 

"Yeah, I might be" John snarled, and before he knew it he was storming back into the dark car, away from the gawking stranger, with no idea why he bothered to come and no clue as to who the man was. But what John did know was that he was more than satisfied with the expression of irritation of the man's face as he disappeared from view,though Mycroft had everything he needed from the ex-army doctor.

***

_A case!_

_Finally, a case!_

Sherlock was practically brimming with pleasure- he would no longer be bored. Albeit John's presence was very  **interesting** , Sherlock needed something to occupy his mind that didn't cause a blush upon his cheeks. And, by God, they hadn't even done anything yet! Not even a kiss. Slowly getting used to one another's being, their likes and dislikes that John always seemed keen to ask about. Obviously, Sherlock was never the one to instigate the gaining of knowledge by questioning his soul mate, the detective gathered all the information he needed by deducing and listening in on conversations between John and others such as Mike or Mrs Hudson. As much as he deemed relevant for the time being. John accompanied Sherlock along to crimes scenes and that in itself gave the detective much to go on.  

It had barely been two weeks and much more was becoming relevant. Or in Sherlock's mind recently,  _interesting._

John had shot a man for him.

Just killed a man to protect Sherlock.

Sherlock: his soul mate.

And John,  _his_ soul mate had just killed a man  _for_ him _._

He knew this as soon as he started to describe what the man must have been like. When his eyes found John a good 30 ft away looking around innocently. But Sherlock _knew._ He always did. The consulting detective stopped his deducing mid sentence and brushed the whole matter off, complaining to Lestrade to leave him alone. He had a blanket for Christ's sake! He was in 'shock', or at least that was his excuse to abandon the scene and over to John.

"Donovans just been explaining everything" John began, his voice hesitant "two pills...dreadful business, dreadful" he frowned, so ordinary.

"Good shot" the detective praised, only the ends of his mouth twisting in what could be said was a smile. John smacked his lips before answering.

"Yes, must have been" John looked behind him, "to go through that window"

"You'd know" Sherlock hinted, watching the way John chewed on his inner cheek, "did you get the powder burns out of your fingers? I don't suppose you would serve time for this, but lets avoid a court case" Sherlock glanced to the side in his explanation, his tone low. John coughed gruffly for a moment before looking Sherlock in the eye again.

"Its how you get your kicks, isn't it? Risking your life to prove you're clever"  
  
"Why would I do that?" Sherlock feigned being insulted.

"Because you're an idiot" and that was that. John looked up at Sherlock, his gaze never faltering.

"Dinner?"

"Starving" John gasped, stomach growling like some raging beast. Sherlock smiled at this, and together they rolled on out of the crime scene, seemingly inconspicuous. That was until John gave a quick glance up at the detective which sent them into a phase of giggling school girls. The officers were giving them deranged looks, and God help them, Lestrade was smiling too.


	5. I'm Marked By Your Sweet Kisses Of Acceptance

The evening was old but the night young when the pair rolled up to Speedy's Sandwich Bar & Café. It should have closed by now, but Sherlock managed to persuade the owner otherwise, who didn't seem too upset about keeping the place open an extra hour. A gentle applause of rain danced against the window where the two were seated, admiring the flickering lights and subtle darkness of London before their eyes. A small smile played about John's lips as he spared a glance at his soul mate opposite him, their legs  _almost_ tangling and barely touching under the round table.

"You know..." John began, leaning back in his seat as he shuffled his foot forwards a little, just slightly so that it brushed Sherlock's ankle in the most indiscreet way he could manage, "...I met your arch enemy a couple days ago".

Sherlock turned to John at this, eyebrow cocked in amusement and curiosity. The doctor watched his soul mate's lips purse in that way he knew Sherlock wanted to say a billion things at once but didn't know where to start.

"Arch enemy" Sherlock repeated, voice rough but his tone still light as a feather. "Fascinating. Do tell me more", the consulting detective smirked.

"He knew things about me.." John confessed, on edge. At this Sherlock's expression faltered to one of concern.

"What did he say?" Sherlock commanded, trying his best to keep calm, rational. "Did he antagonise you?"

"What? No! I mean, _yes,_ but I can handle myself", John defended, his clenching fists going unnoticed by the ex-army doctor. He didn't want to trouble Sherlock and he supposed he shouldn't have brought it up. That was indeed why he hadn't decided to until now. 

"I'm sorry, John" his apology was heartfelt by the detective

"Its not your fault, you couldn't have stopp- look, its not a big deal-"

"I could have. I could have warned you. But I didn't" Sherlock interjected quickly.

"What do you mean?" John frowned, worry creeping back into his mind.

"Hes my brother"

"Ah" John completely froze, analysing the words the best he could until it made sense. The doctor chuckled quietly to himself.  _Of course._

"You're not mad..?"

"Now that I know neither of us are in danger? Of course I'm not mad, love" John hadn't even registered his own words, still smiling to himself. Before Sherlock had the chance to say something -anything that wasn't the gob smacked look on his face- food was being placed in front of them and John had already started to tuck in. Even the owner didn't notice the good three seconds it took for Sherlock to finally begin his meal, although he should have (and was) famished.

All the while Sherlock's eyes stayed trained on John, deducing as the candle light flashed an ominous orange glow across their faces. But not all of the light in the world could have highlighted Sherlock's skipping heart beats.

 ***

When the pair finished their peaceful meal, John paid the owner (his treat, Sherlock's reward) to begin the ten foot walk to the door of 221B Baker Street. The detective had no trouble unlocking the door despite the heavy darkness as the two shuffled inside. John laughed when Sherlock shook his head to dislodge the water droplets that had accumulated there. John's own hair stuck at awkward angles that he knew must have been very unattractive, albeit the detective thought very differently.

The doctor ascended the rickety stairs, Sherlock practically glued to his side. If John felt intimidated by the close proximity, it didn't show, rather, his veins warmed slightly with the knowledge that his soul mate was so close. Sherlock nudged the door shut behind them when they passed into their apartment, leaving John to flick the main light on to illuminate their surroundings. Everything was as they left it- a complete mess. John wouldn't have it any other way, provided he could still sit in what had become his armchair with a cup of tea.

The doctor slipped off his wet shoes and coat as Sherlock imitated his actions, leaving the soaked materials to dry by the whistling radiator. John let out an exaggerated yawn as he let Sherlock know he was going off to bed. It had been an awfully exhausting day.

"Goodnight, Sherlock" John voiced at he grabbed the end of the banister up to his room.

"Wait!"

The ex-army doctor paused at this, dropping his hold of the banister to watch his soul mate approach him cautiously. Sherlock's frame was within inches of touching John's heated, and yet still damp body. The doctor stared up at his soul mate in sincere interest, his focus only trained on Sherlock's unfixed gaze. For John's soul mate to only utter a few words in a deep exhale in the somewhat dark environment.

"Thank you, John", Sherlock mumbled, leaning further down towards the doctor to place the most fleeting of kisses upon his cheek. 

John's lips could only part in gaping surprise as the detective slowly removed himself to the safety of his room, droplets of water still running down his pale neck under the collar of his white shirt. The doctor didn't move until he saw the door to Sherlock's room close lightly behind the bone-tired detective, when he placed an ethereal touch along his cheek where Sherlock's lips had graced him.

 

John didn't sleep a wink: his mind was going haywire, his brain malfunctioning as he stared up at the off-white ceiling. The covers were practically thrown into the air as John leapt out of bed in frustration. He didn't usually have trouble getting to sleep, just staying that way. But tonight was very different. John kept thinking about Sherlock's sweet kiss. And by God, he must have been going mad for it was only on the cheek! A small peck! Yet the soldier's heart was melting.

Careful not to make too much noise, John stepped into his night shoes and trotted downstairs into the living room. The doctor felt blessed when not a single wooden board make a whisper of a creak. John's form soon morphed at the desk after making himself a rather hot tea, laptop flipped open. The screen darted blue and white colours onto John's face, unnatural lighting for an unnatural hour of wake. The doctor automatically checked his emails, albeit he knew there would be nothing new there. 

When John finally decided he  _needed_ to do something, he pulled up his blog and began a draft for his latest entry. The words seemed to flow, professional but story-like in a way that would attract the most mundane and pre-eminent of beings.

Minutes ticked by into hours that eventually settled in the early morning rays of half-hidden sunlight. The sky was a gloomy shade of worn-out chalk, the streets slowly filtering in the rushing businessmen of London. And there, snoring at the desk, slumped a sleeping John: draft written with a title awaiting it. The doctor awoke when the rays pulsated at his eyes, all bright and heavenly to contrast his mood.

It was time to get up.

Laden eyes and all, John padded over into the kitchen to make his morning tea, the floor cool against his bare feet. When the beverage had been somewhat successfully made (however routine the task was) John listened for any utterance of his soul mate delighting the new day. When John's ears were only met with silence, the ex-army doctor proceeded to his armchair to read the morning newspaper- though its best not to ask where it had come from, albeit it was likely that Mrs Hudson had sneaked in in the early morning hours when the sun had not quite tampered with John's sleep.

It was almost midday when John decided he had better do something other than rewrite the draft of his soon-to-be-latest entry, or something more productive than reading the newspaper while indulging in as many teas as he could muster. A quick change from his pyjamas into a blue checkered shirt and black jeans and John seemed prepared for whatever the day might throw at him. That was until-

"Good Lord!" John squealed, the fridge door abandoned wide open.

"Its for a case, John" came a deep voice. The doctor gave a quick glance at the sheet wrapped Sherlock before slowly closing the door, chicken for that night still in hand.

"Of course" John chuckled, placing that plump meat on the counter top, careful not to stare at his soul mate he could only picture naked beneath the silk cotton of the duvet.

"You didn't sleep last night" Sherlock deduced from the living room, watching John intently, "you have bags under your eyes, you've drunk four cups of tea in the last few hours, some of your muscles are twitching: you're restless", Sherlock concluded.

"Yes. I-uh, couldn't sleep much... I've been working on my blog though, still need to come up with a name for the case?" John hinted, his statement just slightly on the scale of questioning, asking for Sherlock's ideas. At this the consulting detective seemed to perk up a bit, sitting in his chair as John leaned at the desk, reading out his entry. "What do you think then? Any ideas"

"Pink" 

"Hmm?"

"The woman, that allowed us to solve the case, she was wearing pink, her phone was pink, the suitcase was, indeed, pink", the detective explained, white sheet still draped around his body.

John thought upon Sherlock's logic until a little shock of an idea pounce around inside his brain.

"A study in pink!" John exclaimed, already typing it into the headline box. The doctor only hesitated for a moment before posting on his blog. John swivelled round in the chair to face Sherlock, a child-like grin plastered on his face. 

"You're welcome" Sherlock purred, his head tilted slightly at John, observing. The consulting detective had never thought he would meet someone so, well, not boring. It was as if John had geared up his senses and ran them through a grater, making them sensitive and remarkably difficult to differentiate between the rush he got from a case and the heated pit in his stomach whenever he was with the doctor.  

"You know, last night wasn't a one off thing- I would do it all again". 

Sherlock looked up with his best neutral look when he heard John's voice echo beside him. His words were serious and the detective knew exactly what his soul mate was referring to: that John had killed for him. Sherlock didn't fear that it would happen again- he would kill for John Watson within a heartbeat. There was no doubt about that lingering in Sherlock's brilliant mind.

"I would do anything for you Sherlock, you only need to ask" John was sincere in his words, yet he eyes only gazed at Sherlock for the duration of the confession before he averted them to look to the side in a humble fashion.

"And I for you" Sherlock announced, even if inside his brain was telling him to be sarcastic, that people were boring and sentiment was a deadly weakness, completely boring, that self preservation was above all. But, if he had said anything different his words would have been that much false, and to John, he could never truly lie to- not when his life was free from a bullet going through it.

 


	6. This Mark Is A Symbol Of How Its Only You

It hadn't even been twenty four hours since they solved their last case that Sherlock declared he was bored.

"You just solved a case!" John exclaimed from his chair, a look of bemusement and endearment sketched across his features.

"I need another one!" Sherlock tutted, lounging about on the sofa that could just about contain the consulting detective's limbs. John loved the way Sherlock's dressing gown draped and gathered around his soul mate's body, leaving very little to the imagination- to which John was not always thankful for. Giving a quick cough the doctor returned to reading the newspaper, warm crumpet in one hand. 

It was a matter of weeks before a case that beckoned Sherlock's attention came to light. Soon the flat was filled with pictures of symbols and signs fluttering around them. If John hadn't felt useless before, he certainly felt that way now: the images meant nothing to him, and not even with every brain cell activated could John figure them out. 

The pair had become closer through the emptiness of cases. The lack of 'fantastic' murders allowed John to question his soul mate without Sherlock having a distraction (though Sherlock would surely argue that John was the distraction). He knew how Sherlock liked his tea, and how wonderfully he played the violin _almost_ erotically. Although many would say the music was annoying -the notes occurring at strange hours and often loud if Mycroft had pissed the detective off- John found it brilliant. He would often sneak down from his room to come sit as he watched Sherlock's fingers move along the strings with such passion. Once, when John didn't recognised the tune, he called Sherlock out on it, to which the consulting detective gave him his most cheeky smile and carried on.

However, John began to find himself not exactly bored, but, as if he wasn't doing enough: the clinic had turned down his C.V. sent in for full time work, and had instead offered him a part time place, only coming in when they were that short staffed.

Honestly, John wasn't surprised when he found himself trailing along the train tracks one evening, attempting to help Sherlock with this mysterious case. Having separated, John absent-mindedly tugged his coat closer around his body, hunched over in the chilly breeze. That was until the doctor caught sight of the the most obnoxious wall he had ever seen.

White painted symbols practically covered the surface, a ghostly reminder of something more sinister going on behind closed doors. Snapping a quick picture, John quickly went to find the busy Sherlock nearby. Only both to return to-

"Its gone! The symbols!" John gasped, disbelieving. _It had just been there a moment ago._

"Its wet" Sherlock concluded, inspecting the very sticky paint, eyes twitching at the loss of information. "Do you remember anything?"

"I guess-" John began, about to head for his pocket when the detective turned to John suddenly, gripping him by the shoulders with an iron hold. Before John even registered the contact, Sherlock was spinning the pair in a circle profusely, uttering what John assumed was nonsense about doing this to maximise potential memory recall. "Sherlock...Sherlock...Sherlock! Stop!"

"Do you remember it?" Sherlock panted, face so close to John's that their warm breath mingled in the air, connecting them.

"No-" John began, but before Sherlock could continue spinning them, the doctor placed a hand on each of the detective's own. Sherlock's eyes were wide, confused as John fingered his soul mate's knuckles in a calming manner. "I took a picture you idiot" John whispered, smiling up at Sherlock's delightful face. The detective gave out a gruff laugh of embarrassment, his head dipping down in the process. John gently pressed their forehead's together. Each body using the other for balance as eyes close and cheeks dimple in contentment.

John released one of Sherlock's hands to caress the detective's face while the other then fiddled for his phone. Sherlock smiled down softly at his soul mate, enjoying the gentle touch along his cheekbone before it disappeared (though the tingling sensation did not).

"Here" John cooed, handing Sherlock the phone with the snap shot. The consulting detective took the gadget and analysed the photo as best he could there and then.

"Nice work" Sherlock praised, giving the smallest of grins before sauntering off back to Baker Street. John as his heels, with the faintest glow of a blush on his cheeks.

 

The apartment was quickly becoming a literal analysis book- important pictures and pieces of information scattered in the most coordinated fashion one could muster with such rational care. John shook his head at the mess, though Sherlock saw it as much more as he always did. The case would be solved in no time! John was sure of that.

Of course, the pair hadn't considered the kidnapping of a certain doctor in mistaking him for Sherlock, nor a secret smuggling ring or an assassin sent to kill those who betrayed the organisation- all for a hairpin that belonged to an Empress!

John's heart was pounding against his ribcage, upsetting his lungs as he hauled himself from the damp and dingy floor. He almost got shot: again!

"Are you OK?" Sherlock huffed, coming to stand beside John as he watched the shadow of a small woman escape. John let out an exhausted chuckle, adrenaline coursing through his veins, hands steady with determination.

"They thought I was you!" John exclaimed, amused beyond understanding, "...Me? Bloody Sherlock Holmes? Good gracious". For a moment Sherlock cocked his head, figuring John out, before he began laughing along with his doctor. "Thank you"

"Hmm? For what?" Sherlock asked, all giggling seizing and the detective gave John his best dead-pan look. 

"For coming to get me. I mean. I  _know_ you would, but just, thank you"

"I wouldn't have let them do anything to you" Sherlock admitted, not daring to look John in the eye.

"Just let them kidnap me, eh?" John joked, a sly smile plastered neatly on his face.

"But of course" 

"You know, its strange. All for a hairpin? I know Soo Lin did some explaining back at the museum on the organisation, but still- a right complicated one this is!"

"Was" Sherlock corrected.

"Yes. I suppose its over now" John concluded, watching Sherlock intently. "Don't suppose you know where this hairpin is?"

The consulting detective glanced towards John at this, and thats all that the doctor needed to know. He wasn't a complete idiot after all.

"Sherlock!" John screeched, of course Sherlock knew where the hairpin was- he probably had it for all John knew, and a lot he knows indeed.

 

Each case seemed to get more and more dangerous- John being kidnapped was proof of that. But If there was one thing John couldn't deny, it was that he preferred this kind of life: being a civilian didn't suit him. Even though John knew the life they have chosen isn't safe. Far from it, albeit that did nothing to deter him from his slim love next to him in the cab.

"Dinner, then?" John asked, peering over at his detective.

"Perhaps we can order" Sherlock mumbled, sleep deprived and adrenaline draining down the pipe. 

"Sure" John smiled, eyes gleaming with such affection he never knew he could have for another man. It wasn't long before the cab arrived at Baker Street and John was left paying for the trip. John was welcomed back as he walked up the stairs by Mrs Hudson, glad of his safe return. John thanked her quickly before dismissing the woman altogether, eager to have some food and even a bit of peace and quiet if he was lucky. Sherlock was just putting down the phone when John locked the door behind himself, shaking off his coat and jumper while simultaneously slipping off his shoes. John noticed how Sherlock's large coat still swayed around him, so he motioned for the consulting detective to hand it over. While he did so reluctantly, Sherlock was glad to be free of the material as he came to settle upon his arm chair. 

"Will be here soon: Mrs Hudson will bring it up so don't bother going down to answer" Sherlock mumbled, voice cracking slightly as he shuffled to a comfortable position. All genius limbs stretched out, John made himself and Sherlock tea from the kettle brought up by the mysterious hot-beverage-giver. While John was busy, Sherlock took the opportunity to watch his soul mate at work: tight muscles and broad chest, Sherlock could all but not picture vividly the skin underneath. How the clever detective imagined the warm body to envelope him in wicked exploration, sweet kisses from those purse lips along his own, needy complex. Sherlock quickly averted his gaze as John trotted to the living room, placing the cups of tea where they could be individually reached by dehydrating anatomies.

It wasn't long before the rather delicious food arrived and the pair were tucking into their meal at the table (mostly cleared of harmful chemicals). John wouldn't admit it, but he loved it when he saw Sherlock shuffling food into his system. The doctor inside him always nagged about Sherlock's shameful habits, albeit each flaw made John love him that much more. Love- he seemed to be using that word a lot in his mind, used it to describe a lot about Sherlock. John believed he finally understood what it was to have a soul mate: that deep, undying connection between two opposing forces, interlocking in such a way that it becomes an unbreakable bond. Yes. That was definitely it.

"I was thinking of The Blind Banker-" John confessed between mouthfuls of the fulfilling delicacies Sherlock ordered, "... as the title for when I write up the case on my blog"

Sherlock gave a curt nod, considering the name before deciding he could never come up with anything better, he tended to leave all creativity to John in that aspect.

"Don't forget the analysis"

"God, Sherlock. Even I don't fully understand how you solved the case! And I was there! The readers won't know what the hells going on" John chuckled, he would save his soulmate's brilliance for the consulting detective's own blog. His was about capturing the story, engaging the reader in a way that they had a chance of understanding their messy life. Sherlock laughed at this: there was no way he could argue.

John's subtle praises got him as much as the obvious ones. It left the consulting detective with a certain sparkle in the eye and a light-feathered fluttering. Sherlock finished his meal with a glow not just brought about by solving such a case, but the warm body beside him as they came to sit on the sofa together. Knees almost touching, John noted the way Sherlock eyelids would droop down and startle open again. A heartfelt smile caressed John's face as he watched his detective evade sleep.

"Come here, you" John cooed, shifting his own body to a slight slant across the sofa. Simultaneously he wrapped his arms around the mellow man, bringing their bodies closer so that Sherlock's head and shoulders rested on John's sturdy chest. 

"Not tired" Sherlock mumbled, ever so child like, his words barely coherent.

"I know" John played along, his hold snug but loose around his soulmate. When Sherlock made no attempts to move, John sighed and rested his chin in the unruly curls of the detective.

It wasn't long before the gentle snores of a tiresome detective could be heard, his hands resting innocently along John's thigh- though the doctor sure it served a purpose. The things John wanted to do to the brilliant man against him (preferably when they're both awake) haunted his mind. But right now, he was more than content to just hold him, as if anything could take him away at any moment. John placed a gentle kiss upon the mop of dark curls, burying his nose in the wonderful scent before he even realised what he was doing. Albeit it was just a single thought that brought John away from his wishes of entwining their heated bodies.

That people know of him- his wonderful, clever detective. 

Even the taxi driver had said a man (his sponsor) knew about Sherlock. The opera singer knew all about the consulting detective- probably more than John was comfortable with.

But how long would it be until someone else came after Sherlock. And more importantly, what would happen to the people like Molly or Mrs Hudson when such a time occurs?

All of the people Sherlock involves in his adventures... They're not safe. _We're not safe._ There are forces out there and they're coming for Sherlock Holmes.


	7. This Mark, It Means I'll Stick By Your Side, Always

The great game began like no other- with a massive explosion. John remembered little on his walk back from the shops as he heard and felt the heat of the destruction. John had never ran so fast in his life, had never been so thankful when he realised it has been the house across the street from them that had perished in wicked flames. 

"Sherlock! Are you alright?" John called, shifting as quickly as he could up the stairs into their flat. Dropping the bags by the door, John sprang to Sherlock who was struggling to get to his feet, shattered glass around them. "Sherlock?"

"Mm. Yes, John..." Sherlock slurred, clinging to John's shoulders as he analysed what had happened, words scrambling through his head as his ears buzzed. "S'fine"

"God, Sherlock" the doctor gasped, pulling Sherlock away from the shards and into the relative safety of the kitchen. There were merely small cuts and scratches upon his detective, a relief for the ageing soldier. "Fuck" John swore, looking about the place and the orange sparks of fire glowing through the windows. 

"S'all-right" Sherlock garbled, coming to his senses as he finally - _really_ \- saw John before him, expression worried as he ran a hand through his detective's hair. All possible scenarios raced through Sherlock's genius mind- but he had to  _see_ for him to truly get his answers. Despite John's protests, Sherlock was pulling on his coat and scarf and went to the scene of the disturbing event. Lestrade soon turned up along with many others, dulling down the flames and helping those in need. 

"Gas leak" Greg told them, eyeing up the folded arms of the doctor by Sherlock's side.

"I'll be the judge of that" Sherlock hissed, hurrying into the crisp building, John by his side, protests out the window- he was curious too. And to Lestrade's annoyance, the house had been rigged with explosives. It was no accident. That knowledge bared weight upon John's demeanour, it could have easily been their apartment. Though John knew that was silly: it was always suppose to be the house opposite them- a warning. This was more than clear to all parties when a certain pink phone was discovered within one of the scorched-black rooms. Sherlock knew the moment he saw the box that it had been left for him, just for him.

The consulting detective fingered the device expectantly, turning it this way and that before finally switching it on. Everything was quite for a moment, Sherlock could even hear John's anticipated breathing next to his own.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Five beeps and a picture of an empty flat was all the information the phone gave- but it was enough.

"Where is that?" John asked over Sherlock's shoulder, not realising the significance of the five, warning beeps.

"221C" the detective replied sharply, just as quickly turning out the door and across the empty street. John and Greg panted to keep up with the long legged mad-man, luckily for them it was a short run until they found Sherlock persuading a key from Mrs Hudson's clutches. The room revealed a pair of trainers, and upon this sight, the phone rang. A woman was wrapped in explosives and Sherlock had 12 hours to solve the puzzle. John was terrified, but Sherlock merely smiled at the prospect of having such an interesting case to work with. An interaction with a potential murderer!

It was too easy- Sherlock solved the case and the police were allowed to collect the woman (despite the minor distraction of Molly introducing her new _gay_ boyfriend, from IT the detective had deduced). John still shook his head in amazement, that his soulmate could solve such a strange case when the pressure was so high.

It was about to get higher. 

"Why do you think he's doing this?" John asked, taking a sip of his tea to see if was good enough to drink. It would do.

"I can't be the only person to get bored" Sherlock smirked from the table, pink phone in hand. It was a waiting game now. And luckily for Sherlock, he didn't have to suffer for long...

Five beeps. A man. A picture of a car. 8 hours.

It was a walk in the park-or more literally to a garage. It wasn't long before the police were allowed to collect the man from the centre of London. John was struck with horror at the immense devastation that could have occurred if Sherlock had not solved it. 

That evening, as the genius detective paced across the flat, John asked a question, a simple one, but Sherlock's reaction made John's stomach churn.

"Is this because...of that man? Moriarty?"

Sherlock paused his pacing, cocking his head at his soulmate- eyes lit up like eager stars. That was all John had to see. All he had to see- to  _know-_ that they were in far deeper waters than first thought. The doctor swore under his breath, ready to pressure Sherlock into turning his back on the whole ordeal. But, it was laughable at how little John did in ratio to his thoughts, regardless of the detective's terrier-stubborn attitude. 

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

A woman.

A death that was not as it seems.

John trotted over to where Sherlock's eyes were glued to the screen, a picture of a woman upon it. John smirked, taking the device for closer inspection. John recognised the person straight away and told his soulmate as such. It wasn't long before the consulting detective had typed up the answer on his website and the police were on their way to find the woman- but she made a big mistake. She starting muttering, murmuring and babbling about this man, and all John could then hear was the echo of a bomb vibrating through the phone.

She was blown up before the police could get to her. Her and eleven others. All dead.

"Fuck, Sherlock!" John shrieked at his soulmate who was calmly sat in his chair, contrasting the doctor's furious pacing. Sherlock was too calm and John didn't like that one bit. People had lost their lives- this game had gone too far. "Do you even  _care_ about these people?" John continued, voice booming like the echo of a bomb going off in a cave. Sherlock glanced up at John, catching his gaze as he lowers his clasped hands.

"Caring doesn't save lives" was the detective's only response. His stare never wavering as John let out a deep sigh. The ex-soldier's blood was cold but his veins were pounding.

"Is it easy? Do you find it easy not caring?" John snapped, cocking his head to turn away from Sherlock before looking right back at him. 

"Yes"

If a heart could shatter, would it sound dull? Like a boulder thrown into a lake. Or would it sound sharp? Like knives brought together in a draw. But, if a heart could shatter, it wouldn't sound like this:

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Sherlock was barely out the flat door by the last ding, John lagging slightly slower behind him. The doctor didn't even realise, or perhaps it was that he didn't expect, to walk into a halted Sherlock at the bottom of the stairs. John's eyes trailed up his soul mate's body before coming to rest at his eyes. Sherlock was worrying his lower lip between his teeth, his body facing John's nervously, cheeks flushing a delicate pink in unforeseen shyness. 

"It is easy, not caring" Sherlock began quietly, eyes observing everything but John's expression, "but I can't... I can't not care, about you" the detective was silent for a moment longer, allowing himself a second to inspect the softening face of his soul mate. John let out a small exhale of air he didn't know he was holding in, hot breath mingling with Sherlock's. The doctor steadily brought his left hand to cup Sherlock's cheek, using his other to cradle the nape of the detective's neck, fingers brushing against dark strands.

"Thank you: for being honest with me, love" John cooed, all anger from before having dissipated at Sherlock's words he knew took effort to say. The detective practically melted into the touch, bending his head forwards a few inches to feel more of that wonderful heat radiating off of his soul mate. Sherlock wasn't even sure when his eyes had closed, but when he felt the hand on the back of his neck pull him down attentively, he couldn't help but open them slightly to watch as John's lips found his own. 

Sherlock's mouth parted ever so faintly as John's tongue swiped along the younger man's bottom lip, but never once going further, though plush lips moved purposely against timid ones, Sherlock's heart racing not due to the case. The kiss was short -barely worth rating- but it was tender, sensational and filled with filthy promises of things to come as John's lips pressed harder against the detective's, before pulling away with a light _pop_.

"We'll, uh, continue" Sherlock coughed as they shut the front door behind them, "...this...later"

John smirked up at his awkward soul mate, giving a gentle " _alright, love"_ and pondering out to the road to hail a cab. Of course, it was Sherlock who successfully got a taxi to stop for them, causing John to mutter about Sherlock having to teach him to do that as they settled into the soft leather. The game had only just begun.

 

A body had been washed up- a security guard. Connected to a fake painting Sherlock couldn't quite figure out yet. And when John had to use the butt of his gun on a massive assassin (whether that was because John was small, or he really  _was_ 8 ft was another question for later) that had found his hands upon Sherlock, John had never been more ready for a case to be over. For the thrill to stop, even for just a moment. Even though his heart loved every second of it.

They stood in front of the painting, Sherlock tugging on his hair as a child down the end of the pink phone began to count down from ten. 

"Its a fake! The painting is a fake!" the detective screamed into the device. But it was clear the killer wanted proof. Time was running out, John clutched at the hand Sherlock had gripping in his hair, bringing it towards the doctor's chest.

"You can do this! Think. Sherlock" John encouraged. Time was running out. And that's when Sherlock saw it.

"THE SUPERNOVA! There's a supernova in the painting that didn't appear until 1858- it couldn't have been painted by an artist from the 1640's!" Sherlock yelled into the phone, heart thumping against his ribcage, breath coming out in ragged exhales. 

The child stopped counting. 

"Fuck" John swore in disbelief. It was too close. Too close, too much.

The doctor kept his grasp tight on Sherlock's hand, guiding the detective closer until the tall man leaned against the ex-soldier. 

All of them had been working for one man: Moriarty.

Sherlock's suspicions had been proven true. Not that anyone but Donovan and Anderson ever doubted them. Waiting for a phone call, John leaves Sherlock with his gadgets in the flat. They were both hungry and John was determined to cook his soul mate a proper meal. But, the doctor hadn't even walked twenty feet from 221B when a shiny, black car pulled up next to him. John's first instinct was that it was Mycroft, and wanting to confront the brother, John stopped walking to lock eyes with the unwinding window. 

There was no woman there glued to her phone as John assumed, but a man, with a gun pointed straight at him.

"Get in"

***

Sherlock's phone buzzed, and the next thing he knew was that his feet were wondering uncertainly by a closed-off pool. The water was a glorious blue with white lights shimmering under the cool, nonchalant ripples. The detective looked about the open room, though nothing could be seen in the pitch black of hidden chairs above him. Sherlock smiled to himself: he was finally going to meet this infamous Moriarty. 

The faint echo of footsteps sounded from further along the poolside, to which Sherlock cocked his head at as a form began to make an appearance from the shadows. The figure was small but heavily built- like a soldier. And when the man finally reached the light, Sherlock's face had never fell so far before.

"John?"

 


	8. You Mark Me. But, We Are More Than That

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry I haven't updated in ages!!! I had internet issues, then exams and then I got writer's block which was the worst and could not have come at a more annoying time when I was so conscious of getting this chapter sorted, but it is an extra page longer than usual to try and make up for that. Haha  
> Everyone looking forward to the next season of Sherlock?! The setlock pictures look great! :)
> 
> Regardless, I hope this chapter is okay, if you spot any mistakes then do let me know. Enjoy the rest of your morning/afternoon/evening/night ^_^

"John?", Sherlock's voice echoed drearily across the damp air between them. The ex-soldier's face was hard to read- dark with something Sherlock had never seen.

"No." 

"Moriarty" Sherlock cocked his said, tasting the foul name on the tip of his tongue. It didn't make sense, that was his John before him: hands clenched and brows drawn.  _Oh..._  The detective's eyes widened when he took in the large coat John probably wouldn't be seen dead in: too big and one that most certainly didn't suit him. But, there he was- with a bomb across his chest. Sherlock didn't need to see it, to  _know._ "John", when Sherlock said his name this time, it wasn't rusty or deflated. Instead his voice boomed with confidence, the confidence of which he hoped to transfer to his soul mate. That they would make it out alive. That their blood and ash would not grace the wet beneath them. Sherlock took a tentative step forwards, scanning the room even though his eyes betrayed him and all he could hear was John's gentle, deep breaths.

"Sherlock, don't." It was a warning. Full of concern that dripped from his soul mate, and into the sterilised pool.

It was the rich, Irish chuckle that stopped the detective, eyes locking on the slim form that fabricated from the inky shapes upon the ivory floor. Immediately Sherlock had pulled the sleek pistol that had been pressed against his side out and towards the pale man, both hands gripped tightly, finger ready against the stiff trigger. When the man came into full light, slick hair and crow eyes visible, the detective instantly recognised the man- but clearly he was not as first presumed. 

Definitely not Molly's 'boyfriend'. Most certainly not from IT.

Undoubtedly,  _the_ killer. 

Moriarty.

Sherlock felt sick: how could he have been so foolish. The signs were all there, stabbing the detective in the back all along, and yet he hadn't an itch. But this time, Sherlock wouldn't let this man slip through his fingers, not like the cabbie. Everything had come down to this moment. Sherlock could do this. Sherlock ca-

"Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock," the man gravelled, stepping closer "to you?" 

"Let me guess, I get killed" the detective groaned, after so many death threats, one becomes use to them.

"Kill you?" the man sounded surprised, scrunched up his face as if that was the most distasteful thing, "no, don't be obvious... I mean I'm going to kill you... some day" Moriarty confessed, as if planning a holiday. "I don't want to rush it though. I'm saving it up for something special... no, no no, no" he shook his head, before finally releasing an aura of significance. "If you don't stop prying...I'll burn you". The almost-stranger's eyes raked up Sherlock's body, as if setting it alight there and then. "I will burn the  _heart_ out of you"

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one" Sherlock replied, matter of factly.

"I think we both know thats not quite true" Moriarty chimed, taking a longing glance at John who stood unmoving, set to pounce if only Sherlock gave the signal, but he knew it would be idiotic of him to do so. This was a game being played by geniuses. John was merely a pawn that didn't understand the rules, let alone the principle of the game. "I had better be off then", the man admitted, licking his lips before taking a tentative step back.  

"What if I was to shoot you now? Right now"

"Then you could cherish the surprise on my face" Moriarty growled, his face distorting in mock horror before returning to its natural smirk. "Because I'd be surprise, Sherlock. Really I would. And just a  _tincy_ bit... disappointed... Then, you wouldn't be able to cherish it for long"

The detective suppressed the urge to look upon his soul mate, fearing he would lose his calm exterior. 

"Chow, Sherlock Holmes" Moriarty hissed, finally carrying his weight away from the detective's cold bones and John's twitching legs. Becoming a wisp of the shadows once more.

"Catch. You... Later" Sherlock growled, his own feet approaching John in a way that his hands never left the trigger as it followed the Irish man's trail.

"No you wont!" Moriarty sang, a door clanging shut in his place.

Sherlock waited approximately 2 seconds before taking a worrying glimpse at the bomb only to then meet John's eyes in a brief acknowledgement of their redness- drugs. Sherlock hastily began tugging at the coat, murmuring continuously if he was okay, much to John's quiet "yeah, yes. I'm alright, Sherlock...Sherlock"

The detective was in a haze of black and gold, heaving the coat along with the explosives across the pool: eliciting an awful and yet relieving scratchy sound as it slide across the rough tiles. It was as if the pair had finally come up for oxygen, both gasping as John tugged a hand through his hair before his knees finally gave way as the adrenaline burned his flesh. Sherlock was like a wolf, following the scent of Moriarty out the door only to find any trace of him gone. The detective scouted the area, pacing back and forth in front of his soulmate who sat on the balls of his feet against the only solid surface he could find to steady himself. The pistol lay tightly in Sherlock's grasp, cooling the back of his neck as he analysed. 

"Are you okay?" John asked shakily, his breath still coming out in deep exhales. Not even in the army had John felt so sick, so  _afraid._ He hated every second of it- not that he was frightened that he might die, but that his soulmate had been in the line of danger. That Sherlock had been threatened and John had been helpless to do anything.

"Me? Yep. Fine" Sherlock replied, his feet never resting on the ground for more than a moment in his strides.

"Well, I'm glad no one saw that"

"Hmm?" Sherlock turned to look down at John with harmless interest.

"You...ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool: people might talk" John clarified, a slight smirk upon his features.

"People do little else" he mused, a lop sided grin breaking free from wrapped up nerves. John gave a light chuckle, shifting to stand, only to frown when blotches of red dotted his chest, quivering with intent. Sherlock didn't have to look at his own shirt to know the same iridescent pinpoints were stalking him as well.

"Sorry boys!" the thick Irish accent returned," I'm  _so_ changeable...It is a weakness with me. But to be fair-" he exclaimed, "-It is my only weakness"

John's breath held in his lungs, glancing up at his soulmate who's eyes were following the form behind them- scrutinising every exaggerated movement Moriarty made as he mocked them twenty feet away.

"You can't be allowed to continue" he persisted, as if the detective and his doctor were school boys playing dirty in the cafeteria. "You just can't...I would try to convince you..." Moriarty gave a light laugh at that,"but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind"

Sherlock glanced down, locking eyes with John as if it would be the last time they met with the light still in them. At the way his mouth gaped open in disbelief, as if they were foolish to have thought they could have gotten out of here- alive. Darkened lips and dilated pupils for all the wrong reasons made Sherlock's heart ache in a way he never thought it able to. But most of all he sought permission for his actions, and when John gave that slight nod, that was all he required.

"Probably my answer has crossed yours" the detective dared, voice even as he shifted to face his enemy, gun swerving to lay level with the smirking man before him- only for a second. Without breaking his gaze from Moriarty, Sherlock lowered the gun to the flashing blue light attached to red packs of powder, revealed between the fabric of the coat that once covered John's lungs.

All three men in that moment glanced down at the bomb, at the implication presented before them, closer to Moriarty and yet close enough to make every single one of them burn apart in a heated mess of tile and flesh. From the twitch in Sherlock's eye Moriarty knew he wouldn't hesitate to make him into 'pink rain'. 

With a lazy smile, a gentle chime and the swish of a hand, Moriarty called off the gunmen and John could finally let out the stale breath he had been holding in. One by one the red lasers left their bodies as the Irishman pondered, un-fazed, out the door. Only when the sound of scuttling above them disappear did Sherlock reel in the pistol that had ultimately saved their lives when it could have been used to end it. 

"Fancy a take away tonight, then?" John asked, slightly out of breath as he came to stand.

"Sounds like a plan" the detective beamed, taking John's hand in his own.

 

 

The pair sat upon the wooden floor, boxes of food laid out between them as the fire crackled, highlighting their faces in the otherwise dark room. John watched his soulmate slowly devour his meal, even going as far as to steal particular items from the ex-soldier's plate. Their forms finally relaxed into the evening tranquillity, muscles loosening; hearts beating at their regular pace once more.

John would have said that was enough excitement for now- but he knew for Sherlock it wouldn't ever be enough, and that was something John had learned to live with a long time ago. At every new case John's bones hardened, he had to be strong for Sherlock where his soulmate was sharp for him: fitting together like the ultimate machine. Each piece different and yet bringing something needed for it interlock in such a way for it to work efficiently.

They were a team. Fate decided and consciously put together and like the Rock of Gibraltar- it cannot be undone.

As the pair finished their meal, John began to jot notes down about the case: hoping to have the chance to write about this tedious mystery that was -for now- half solved. Just as the doctor had penned his thoughts (often asking his soulmate for certain details that he couldn't hope to remember or understand) Sherlock's voice broke through the quiet that had settled between them.

“I composed a song for you”

"Oh?" John replied, coming to rest in his armchair. The detective made a small affirmative grunt, as if he wasn't quite sure of himself. This was one of those times John loved him most: where Sherlock seemed so much smaller than the world around him, his confident exterior gone as he exposed himself to the man before him with no shield to protect him. No walls between them as he gave another little part of himself to John.

Of course, he knew his melody was good (perhaps brilliant) but with his soulmate watching him perform the embodiment of his feelings into song, he couldn't help but feel flustered by it all.

As Sherlock collected his violin, pulling it against him he didn't need the music sheet, the notes already ingrained within his mind. John waited patiently with bated breath, eager to hear the sonorous and mellow tune he had only brief knowledge of. The instrument was steady in Sherlock's grasp, the varnish glinting eerily in the moonlight emitted through the window.

And when Sherlock played that first note, John's heart fluttered in his chest- as if a moth had eaten through the roughness leaving him bare, only left with the fondness and yearning for his soulmate. His lips turned up in a blissful smile, while his eyes and mind admired Sherlock's composition. Every emotion was captured in the music and John could feel it radiate in the air between them and everywhere else. It was akin to winding up the generator to cover them in the most brilliant of light, when actually it was merely Sherlock's physique caressed by the starlight.

In that moment, John was sure it was the most beautiful scene his eyes would ever lay witness to- that his ears would perceive. And his body would ever endure so sweetly. Sherlock's body moved of its own accord as the music resonated between them, and when the last note cried, John's heart was full. So full it could have burst at any moment. John knew his soulmate was brilliant- but  _this..._ It was something so very intimate: an aching, longing need shared between them in its (almost) most naked form.

"That was beautiful, love. Absolutely beautiful. Amazing" John praised, coming to stand with a light clap of his hands. Sherlock blushed at the admiration, carefully placing back his beloved violin where it belonged. 

"Thank you" Sherlock timidly replied, a gentle warmness embellishing his skin like roses upon an open coffin. "I'm, um, glad you like it"

"Of course I do- Sherlock, I love everything you do. You could throw a decapitated head at me and my feelings for you would not change! You could be shit at the violin and I would still love you. But regardless, it was fantastic.  _You_ are fantastic. Anyone would be a fool to think otherwise" John assured, coming to take Sherlock's hands into his own, little knowing how the detective hung onto his every word. 

"You love me?", the question was asked with every uncertainty, blue eyes wide and plump lips parted in uttermost portrayal of his youth- of the detective's innocence. It was a moment before John replied, squeezing Sherlock's hands tighter.

"How could my feelings for you be anything else?"

"You were surprised, when we first met" the detective recalled breathlessly as John's thumbs brushed and rubbed over his knuckles, soothing Sherlock's lithe fingers with his own calloused ones. Marked from years at war... in persistence of saving lives- keeping souls encompassed in dying bodies of determined soldiers who wanted nothing but to save their better halves (regardless if fate had yet to bring them together).

"I was one of those fools I'll admit for a moment there" the ex-soldier acknowledged, brows furrowed as he stared at their entwined hands.

"I wasn't sure what my feelings for you are, but I think that, I love you." Sherlock confessed, a blush arising in his cheeks, that same passionate warmth pooling in his stomach, making him dizzy, eyes aflutter as he took a fleeting look at his soulmate. "You make me feel, and that scares me, John. But love, I suppose thats what it is"

John muttered something under his breath after that, but Sherlock didn't quite catch it- not when the soldier's lips had found his own.

**Author's Note:**

> How is it so far? I haven't written Johnlock before so its all new to me. Cake for your thoughts?  
> Hoping to update as much as I can in-between A-level work (and a lot of work it is!!) and my voluntary work.
> 
> Farewell and may the odds be ever in your favourite OTP.


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